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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

I ran the brittle, cracked cusps of my fingernails up and down my skin, pure, unspeakable relief. It was the feeling of rare foreign holidays as a child, covered in mosquito bites that my mother told me not to scratch, the unleashed bliss of finally letting myself do it, of sensation meeting its answer in my own hand. I thought of the scratch mitts that the boys had had to wear as newborns, the way that Ted’s face looked, the one time I was too busy to remember to put them on. Covered in his own scratches, red lines across his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. My baby, I had moaned. He’d looked ruined, at that moment. I’ve let it happen, I’d told myself. Should have stopped him, somehow.

I got up, as though I would leave, get back on my bike, ride through the night to their skins, their sweet breath on mine. But it was completely dark now: the windows showed me nothing. I sank to my knees, closed my eyes, seeing lights in the corners of my vision, hearing a roaring in my ears, a rush like the wind passing over the tops of trees. I moved my nails into my hair, hunched over, the weight on my back like two hands, pressing me down.

Then: it seems, for a moment, that none of it has happened. That I am at home, and my babies are with me. I am daydreaming, it seems, soaring now above church spires, building sites, playgrounds. I can see every detail, the stitching on clothes drying in gardens, the words on their labels. I can go on, glide over the sea, over boats, islands, towards an ever-­shifting horizon, only distance, no time: only this.

I open my eyes, grasping at myself, certain I will see something: creatures, scabs, appearing, growing. I look and look, searching my own body, every inch of it. There is nothing there.

~

But in the middle of the night I do see, and laugh: it is happening now, as I always knew it would.

I am her: I am here.

~

Part IV

IV

~

I wake up with the feeling that I am being watched. I open my eyes and see the wall, the window still as a waiting animal, looking for me.

The glass is broken, its crack a pattern, a message. I have given up trying to read it.

~

I have been here for weeks, I think. Or: for a single day, the longest I have ever known. There has been knocking, and I have ignored it. More than this: I hid.

I found a hiding place where I could keep telling it – my story, her story. The way we ended up.

~

A truck moves past on the main road, so heavy that the floor shakes. But it is far away: it won’t come here.